Page 24 of The Catcher (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #5)

T he team of investigators had reconvened at the State Police Department, gathering in the cramped IT room that resembled a miniature NASA control center.

Multiple monitors flickered with data, and the whirring of server fans filled the air, making the room feel stuffier than ever with everyone crowded inside.

Rishi Gupta, their tech expert, was hunched over a computer, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he tried to isolate background noise and conversations from the tape.

McKenzie entered the room, his expression determined.

“Just got off the phone with NYC,” he announced, his voice cutting through the hum of activity.

“They’re sending the boys in blue over to Central Park to see what they can find.

Though I think they’ve got their work cut out for them.

That place is swarming with geocaches. ”

Porter furrowed his brow. “You really think that’s where our perp is pointing?”

McKenzie nodded firmly. “For sure. It was as clear as day on that tape. Hey, Noah?”

Noah, immersed in his task, pulled off his headphones to listen to what McKenzie had to say. “What?” he replied, his attention divided between the conversation and the snippets of the recording he was analyzing.

“The tape. It points to Central Park,” McKenzie reiterated.

“At the summit, he didn’t give us coordinates. However, he did point us to a location,” Noah interjected, his brow furrowing in thought.

McKenzie raised a hand, signaling for everyone to listen. “There we go. He pointed us to a location. I’d say an hour or two from now, NYC will be back in contact to say they found the kid either alive or dead.”

“However, it was local,” Noah added, a note of concern in his voice.

“What are you saying?” McKenzie pressed, his eyes narrowing in confusion.

“I’m saying, I don’t think the Banning boy will be found in the city,” Noah replied, his mind racing with possibilities.

“But he’s literally handed us the location,” McKenzie argued. “There are no coordinates or any indication of where it would be but that.”

Noah’s expression was troubled. “That’s what concerns me. There’s something more to this; I just don’t know what. ”

Before anyone could respond, Rishi’s voice cut through the tension. “Noah. I think I’ve got something.”

Noah wasted no time, quickly slipping the headset back on, eager to hear what Rishi had discovered.

As Rishi played back the recording, Noah listened intently, focusing on the faint sound Rishi had identified as a name. After several repetitions, Noah’s ears caught the name. “Mr. Horris or Morris?”

“Right,” Rishi confirmed. “I cross-checked those names with various locations in the area and found a hit on an old Adirondack Daily Enterprise article from 2016 about a camp. It’s located by a body of water, and William Morris, the founder of a famous agency for celebrities, originally built it.”

As Rishi showed Google images of the camp, Noah’s eyes widened. He recognized the mansion beside the water and a sizeable bell outside.

“Camp Colby,” Noah murmured, a sense of urgency creeping into his voice. “That’s just on the outskirts of Saranac Lake.”

Rishi nodded.

Noah rose to his feet and clapped Rishi on the shoulder in appreciation. “Well done, Rishi. Keep me updated if you find anything else.”

He nodded.

McKenzie’s voice cut through the moment of triumph, reminding them of the unresolved issue. “Hold on a minute. What about Central Park?” he questioned.

Noah exchanged a quick look with Porter before rushing out of the room, leaving McKenzie to grumble about their next challenge. “Here we go again!”

As the siren wailed and strobe lights flashed, the police cruiser raced along Camp Colby Road, cutting through the lush greenery of the Adirondacks. The midday sun cast dappled shadows across the winding road, creating a picturesque scene as they sped toward their destination.

McKenzie, seated beside Noah in the front of the cruiser, took advantage of the brief lull in urgency to bring Noah up to speed on the location.

“The state owns it,” McKenzie began, his voice barely audible over the wail of the siren.

“The Department of Environmental Conservation has three summer camps for children; one is Camp Colby, alternatively known as Camp Intermission. It’s for 12 to 17-year-olds.

They hold a Teen Ecology Camp there for a week in July and August so they can learn about conservation.

You name it, they do it. Camping, archery, climbing, hiking, fishing, kayaking, hell, even a firearms safety course.

Not bad. That’s a far cry from my shitty summers on Long Island. ”

As he drove, Noah darted glances out the window at the scenery. Tall trees lined the roadside, their leaves rustling in the breeze as the cruiser sped past. Occasionally, they passed by small clearings where bright sunlight illuminated patches of wildflowers and ferns.

As they approached their destination, the two-story mansion once owned by William Morris came into view, its imposing facade standing against the backdrop of the forest. Multiple outbuildings dotted the landscape, their weathered exteriors hinting at years of use and history.

Noah’s eye caught kayaks stacked, old tire swings, and tiny cabins in the woodland.

McKenzie continued his briefing. “Get this; the summer camp doesn’t use the mansion.

Apparently, the staff housing, cafeteria, and offices operate out of the outbuildings, and they have bunkhouses for the campers.

It’s crazy to think that a vacation home like that, used by some of the biggest names in showbiz, is unused. They should give it to me.”

They swerved up near the front of the offices. Noah got out and glanced at the mansion. It stood as a relic of a bygone era, its weathered exterior bearing the scars of time.

The top half was made from clapboard siding, and the foundations were made from stone. However, now it looked worn, weathered, and forgotten, with peeling paint and crumbling masonry hinting at years of abandonment.

Ivy snaked its way up the walls, weaving a tangled web of greenery that seemed to envelop the mansion in a shroud of mystery. Noah noted two lower basement windows that gaped like empty eye sockets, their shattered panes reflecting the desolation that pervaded the estate.

Once a welcoming entrance, the front porch now sagged under the weight of neglect, its steps worn and uneven from years of disuse. A sense of foreboding could be felt, as if the mansion held dark secrets within its decaying walls .

“All right, folks, look lively!”

As the search began, state troopers, local officers, and sheriff’s deputies fanned out in every direction, calling out “Colt. Colt Banning!” in unison.

Amidst the flurry of activity, Noah’s keen eye caught sight of a man raking fall leaves nearby.

Approaching him, Noah wasted no time in getting to the point.

“You in charge?” Noah asked.

The man looked up from his task, shaking his head. “No, just here to winterize the place,” he replied, gesturing towards the sprawling estate behind him.

“Have you seen anyone driving in and out of here over the past day or two?”

The man shook his head once more. “Nope. My crew and I arrived this morning. Barring a few locals on canoes out on the lake, it’s just been us. We get the place ready every winter. What’s this about?” he inquired, curiosity etched in his features.

“That’s all, thanks,” Noah said dismissively, pivoting away without further explanation. It was standard to ask questions, but divulging details wasn’t necessary.

Heading towards the nearby lake, Noah’s hand instinctively brushed against his sidearm as his mind churned with thoughts of the case. The sprawling property, the evidence found, and the recent discovery of the Walkman overlapped.

“This is going to take all day,” McKenzie remarked. “The property is huge. This has to be over 300 acres. If that boy is here, he could be anywhere.”

Over the next twenty minutes, they meticulously combed through the property, leaving no stone unturned in their search.

Porter’s voice broke through the tension. “He’s gotta be here.”

McKenzie's frustration boiled over. “Son of a bitch!” he snapped. “I’m tired of these games. How the hell is he staying one step ahead of us?”

“Maybe he works for us,” Porter suggested, hinting at the recent corruption scandal within the Adirondack Sheriff's Office that had led to a new sheriff being appointed.

Noah pondered this possibility, but something didn’t sit right with him. There was a personal element to this case that transcended mere corruption. Before he could dive deeper into his thoughts, Noah’s phone rang, interrupting his train of thought.

It was Rishi.

“What you got?” Noah asked.

“Did you guys check the other side of the tape?”

“No.”

“You should have. There’s another riddle.”

“What is it?”

Rishi repeated it.

“In the quiet confines where secrets confide,

Beneath the floorboards, where fears reside.

Seek the space where darkness seeps,

And there, the buried secret sleeps.”

Noah quickly jotted it down .

“Guys! Hey!” he called out, waving over Porter and McKenzie, who were now near the office.

They hurried over, their expressions curious. “What’s up?” Porter asked.

“There’s another riddle on the other side of the tape,” Noah explained, holding up his phone. “Rishi just called with the details.”

McKenzie’s eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “Well, laddie, spit it out,” he said, eager to unravel the mystery.

Noah recited the riddle once more:

“In the quiet confines where secrets confide,

Beneath the floorboards, where fears reside.

Seek the space where darkness seeps,

And there, the buried secret sleeps.”

McKenzie’s voice carried a tone of disgust. “Buried? That sick bastard better not have done what I think he has.”

Porter’s eyes widened, his mind racing to grasp the implications. Meanwhile, McKenzie’s lips tightened as he mulled over the words.

“Underneath the floorboards,” Porter muttered, his thoughts aligning with Noah’s interpretation.

McKenzie’s expression hardened. “Well, that narrows it down. We have a mansion and ten outbuildings. What are we meant to do, pull up the floors of all of them?"

“No,” Noah replied, scanning the array of outbuildings. “Seek the space where darkness seeps,” he repeated, his mind racing to interpret the cryptic clue. “Where does darkness seep out of?”

“Crawl spaces,” McKenzie declared, his eyes narrowing with determination.

With newfound clarity, they directed their efforts toward the buildings with crawl spaces. It took a little time to narrow their search to three structures, as the others were constructed from solid stone and lacked such hidden space.

“Colt Banning!”

The desperate call for Colt Banning echoed through the air, sending a shiver down Noah’s spine as he tore off the lattice covering the lower portion of the mansion. With a flashlight, he crouched and peered beneath the aging structure, his heart pounding.

“Colt,” he called out, his voice echoing in the darkness.

But no reply came back, only the eerie silence of the abandoned estate.

“Oh God, please,” he muttered under his breath as he lowered himself and began to crawl underneath, his face encountering spiderwebs and his path obstructed by discarded debris.

As Noah pressed on, his senses heightened, every rustle and scuffle in the darkness set his nerves on edge — a rodent shot across the uneven dirt, adding to the sense of urgency.

Soon, others joined him, their flashlights casting erratic beams that danced and cut through the oppressive darkness. Together, they combed through the crawl space, searching for any sign of the missing teenager .

“Noah. I’ve got footprints and drag marks,” an officer shouted, breaking through the tense silence.

Noah hurried towards the source of the discovery, his heart racing with anticipation. Following the tracks, they soon came upon a mound of dirt and two tubes sticking up from the ground, one of which led to a large water container.

As realization dawned, a heavy weight settled in Noah’s chest. With a sinking feeling, he knew they had found what they were looking for — the makeshift grave where Colt Banning had been buried.

Noah and his team dug into the dirt with their bare hands, scooping it back as fast as they could.

Every handful of earth brought them closer to the truth they dreaded to uncover.

Hope battled against the odds in Noah’s heart, clinging to the belief that Colt Banning might still be alive.

Everything on the surface indicated that the boy had been given air and water, fueling Noah’s desperate optimism.

He had gone missing only the night before, so his survival chances seemed promising.

However, as the dirt began to clear, Noah’s hopes were shattered at the sight of the boy’s motionless face.

They dug him out with frantic determination and immediately started CPR in a desperate bid to revive him.

But Colt’s body was already cold, his spirit having departed long before they unearthed him from the grave.

Noah’s heart sank as he examined the tubing that had been set up, realizing the cruel trap that had sealed Colt’s fate.

The boy hadn’t stood a chance. Forced to choose between air and water, Colt had unknowingly sealed his fate.

Thirst, a primal urge that could drive a man insane, had driven him to opt for water, only to find that in doing so, he had unwittingly sealed off the supply of life-giving air.

No amount of blowing into the tube could reverse the deadly mechanism set in motion.

Noah’s heart ached at the knowledge of Colt’s agonizing choice and the tragic consequences that had ensued.